


Gods of our Making

by Of_Lights_and_Shadows



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: AU, Angst, Drabble, I mean it, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Lights_and_Shadows/pseuds/Of_Lights_and_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They say there’s a man who can draw portraits of those gone, in their last moments, or in their happier times. What that man will ask you for a fee is nothing more than he’ll need for supplies for his next work, and food to last until his next payment. He’s still young, but so incredibly talented, a genius beyond all expectations.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>What most people wonder is how, why that person, who draws for others, doesn’t draw, or ever keep a photo of his most beloved, that of his lover.</em></p><p> </p><p>  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods of our Making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuruumantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuruumantic/gifts).



The small brush gently touches the untainted, for now, canvas. Its thin, black hair is untouched by any additional colour, so its flirting with the white surface leaves no trace, as though it never existed. But that brush is nothing more than the extension of a hand, and that hand is an extension of an arm, which is, in its turn, the extension of a human being.

The brush is momentarily traded for a pencil, and that basic instrument creates the base for the birth of a new creation. There’s a body first, sitting in a relaxed position, legs folded but positioned diagonally, similarly to how one would place themselves on a beach of golden sand and crystal waters, in the company of close, tried and true friends, relaxing. The head however, faces upwards, even though eyes haven’t been drawn already.

God (because what is god, but a creator, and this man is one who _creates_ ) leaves down the pencil and sighs. He creates, and makes a living out of it. His art, his _children_ , are admired so much, people will ask of him to draw, and they’ll hand him a generous reward. Most of it will go to serve his own gods, though, those who constantly shower him with the gifts of talent and inspiration, by purchasing more of what he needs to bring life to his creations: more paint, more brushes, more pencils, more, and more, and more.

He looks around his other, precious children, those who have remained with him. There are only four of them surrounding him. Four of the gods he acknowledges, and the four of them he sees as sacrilege to part with. He just can’t.

With a shake of his head, he returns to the canvas, picking up the pallet and mixes the first colours he believes he’ll need. An ochre yellow for the sand, ultramarine for the sea and a Prussian blue for the sky are his first picks, and slowly, the environment comes to life, while the man remains a mere scribble on paper.

Silence has been given a form.

A bright shade of red is chosen next, and it paints with life, not only the hair and right red eye of the unnamed man, but the whole paining, as well. His lips are made into a thin, curved line, in a light shade of pink, but this is as far as the warmth goes.

In a whim, he picks black and white and mixes them to create a shade of ashen grey, which he uses to dirty the redhead’s, up until now, alabaster skin. These marks spread all over his naked body, for his clothes have been burnt to non-existence. It’d be clear to any hypothetical viewers of this piece that the man doesn’t stand the way he does because he’s relaxing under the night sky. Instead, he sits the way he does because he has no other way to. His body is injured, hurting everywhere. Next follows a darker shade of red, tainting his skin further. He then mixes that red with one of the existing blues on his pallet (he doesn’t care at that point anymore) and bruises the burnt, but surprisingly still living, body.

God’s gaze, that of two, round, aquamarine eyes focus on he completed creation before the takes it in his hands, caressing the cheek of the painted man. He whispers to it, soft mutters of what one would say to their most important person.

A pair of scissors slashes through the fabric, blades being stained with red, as God runs away, leaving the murder weapon at the crime scene, and it looks like it had cut through flesh and not fabric, that it was actual blood and not paint. It looked like it was an attempt on someone’s life, and not a crime against art.

 

_They say there’s a man who can draw portraits of those gone, in their last moments, or in their happier times. What that man will ask you for a fee is nothing more than he’ll need for supplies for his next work, and food to last until his next payment. He’s still young, but so incredibly talented, a genius beyond all expectations._

_What most people wonder is how, why that person, who draws for others, doesn’t draw, or ever keep a photo of his most beloved, that of his lover._

And Kuroko Tetsuya cries, because he can never manage to draw Akashi Seijuro being happy, just like he was every moment they spent together.

The only thing he could do was paint him like that, in his final moments of pain and anguish.

It should have been him.

It _shouldn’t have_ been the redhead.

But it was.

And what scared him the most was that he was haunted by the image of his most precious being in pain.


End file.
